
.-.PS- 



Author . 



Title 



Imprint. 



10--17372-2 OPO 



WHEN THE 
LEAVES 
COME OUT 



WHEN THE LEAVES 
COME OUT 

AND OTHER REBEL VERSES 
BY 

RALPH CHAPLIN 




CLEVELAND OHIO 

PUBLISHED BY THE AUTHOPv 

MDCCCCXVll 






COPYRIGHT 

RALPH CHAPLIN 

19 17 



FEB 12 1917 

©C!..A4 5 706a 



.■N 



CONTENTS 

Salaam you Scissorbills 1 

-^ The Commonwealth of Toil 4 

The West is Dead 5 

When the Leaves Come Out 6 

May Day Song 7 

The Red Feast 8 

Sabotage 10 

What the Satyr Sang 1 1 

Preparedness 12 

The Conquest of the Earth 13 

Too Rotten Rank for Hell 18 

You Preachers of "Morals" 19 

"Come Unto Me" 20 

The Warrior and the Beast 21 

The Eunuch 22 

Respectability 23 

Slaves to the Slaughter 24 

Hey! Polly. 26 

r^eturning 27 

Solidarity Forever 28 

The Prawblem Sawlver 30 

The Mine Guard 31 

Joe Hill 32 

Up From Your Knees 33 

The Ghost Walks 34 

Good Slaves and Springtime 35 

A Memory 35 

The Rubaiyat of a Harvest Stiff 37 

Mexico 40 

The Jungle Stream 41 

The Slave, the Nautch Girl and the Cobra 42 

The Kanawha Striker 43 

What Happened in the Hollow 44 

The Alarm 53 

Kismet 54 



We are indebted to "The Masses" 
for the use of the beautiful Draw- 
ing by Charles A. Winter used on 
the cover of this book. 
The decorative headings were de- 
signed by the author. 




F 






SALAAM, YOU SCISSORBILLS 

Serene, complacent, satisfied; 

Content with things that be — 
The paragon of paltriness 

Upraised for all to see. 
With loving pride he cherishes 

His Mediocrity! 

The smirking, ass-like multitudes 
Cringe down at his command. 

With wagging ears and blinded eyes 
They do not understand. 

With pride they show each shackled wrist 
And oh each brow the brand. 

The young, the old, the great, the small 

Give homage — all supine. 
Fond parents bring their children there 

As to some holy shrine. 
And every one the Beast transforms 

From Human into swine! 

Well praised are they — rewarded well — 

Who on their shoulders bore 
The gilded Thing that all the mob 

Fawned in the dust before. 
And each that did obeisance therez 

Was naked like a whore. 



The poet with his teeming song, 
The wise his deep-delved lore, 

The maiden with her tender flesh, 
The strong his sturdy store; 

Each yielded all he had to give, 
No harlot could do more. 

Is there not one to share with mc 
The shame and wrath I own, 

Is there not one to curse that Thing 
Or pick up stones to stone — 

To rend and wreck and raze to earth; 
Or do I stand alone? 

Raise high the swine-like incubus. 

Obediently bow! 
Shout down the voice of bold dissent 

And wreath that brazen brow. 
So blaze the banners, ring the bells — 

Apotheosis now! 

Go, grovel for the shoddy goods 
And plod and plot and plan. 

And if you win the paltry prize 
Go prize it if you can. 

But I would hurl it in your face 
To hold myself a man! 

I will not bow with that mad horde 

And passively obey. 
I will not think their sordid thoughts. 

Nor say the things they say. 
Nor wear their shameful liveries. 

Nor branded be as they. 



Nor can they bend me to their will 
Though black their numbers swell, 

Nor bribe with hopes of paradise 
Nor force with fears of hell ; 

Me they may break, but never bend — 
I live but to rebel. 

I go my way rejoicingly, 

I, outcast, spurned and low; 
But undreamed worlds may come to birth 

From seeds that I may sow. 
And if there's pain within my heart 

Those fools shall never know. 

My kind but scorn your dull "success" — 

Your subtle ways to "win," 
We eat our hearts in solitude 

Or sear our souls with "sin"; 
Yet we are better men than you 

Who fit so smugly in. 

Then let me stand back silently, 

The pageant passes by. 
And live my life with "outcasts" 

Whom your hands would crucify. 
And laugh with mirth to see the mob 

Do homage to a Lie! 




THE COMMONWEALTH OF TOIL 

(Air: "Nellie Grey'") 

In the gloom of mighty cities, 
Mid the roar of whirling wheels, 

We are toiling on like chattel slaves of old. 
And our masters hope to keep us 
Ever thus beneath their heels, 

And to coin our very life-blood into gold. 

CHORUS 

But we have a glowing dream 
Of how fair the world will seem 

When each man can live his life secure and free. 
When the earth is owned by Labor 
And there's joy and peace for all 

In the Commonwealth of Toil that is to be. 

They would keep us cowed and beaten 
Cringing meekly at their feet. 

They would stand between each worker and his 
bread. 
Shall we yield our lives up to them 
For the bitter crusts we eat ? 

Shall we only hope for heaven when we're dead • 

They have laid our lives out for us 
To the utter end of time. 

Shall we stagger on beneath their heavy load? 
Shall we let them live forever 

In their gilded halls of crime 

With our children doomed to toil beneath their 
goad? 

4 



When our cause is all triumphant 
And we claim our Mother Earth, 

And the nightmare of the present fades away, 
We shall live with Love and Laughter, 
We, who now are little worth, 

And we'll not regret the price we have to pay. 



THE WEST IS DEAD 

What path is left for you to tread 

When Hunger-wolves are slinking near- 
Do you not know the West is dead? 

The "'blanket-stiff" now packs his bed 

Along the trails of yesteryear. 
What path is left for you to tread? 



Your fathers, golden sunsets led ' 

To virgin prairies wide and clear. 
Do you not know the West is dead? 

Now dismal cities rise instead 

And freedom is not there nor here- 
What path is left for you to tread? 



Your fathers' world, for which they bled. 

Is fenced and settled far and near — 
Do you not know the West is dead? 

Your fathers gained a crust of bread. 
Their bones bleach on the lost frontier; 

What path is left for you to tread — 
Do you not know the West is dead? 




WHEN THE LEAVES COME OUT 

The hills are very bare and cold and lonely; 

I wonder what the future months will bring? 
The strike is on — our strength would win, if only — 

O, Buddy, how Tm longing for the spring! 

They've got us down — their martial lines enfold us; 

They've thrown us out to feel the winter's sting, 
And yet, by God, those curs can never hold us. 

Nor could the dogs of hell do such a thing! 

It isn't just to see the hills beside me 
Grow fresh and green with every growing thing; 

I only want the leaves to come and hide me. 
To cover up my vengeful wandering. 

I will not watch the floating clouds that hover 
Above the birds that warble on the wing; 

I want to use this GUN from under cover — 
O, Buddy, ho I'm longing for the spring! 

You see them there, below, the damned scab-herders! 

Those puppets on the greedy owners' string ; 
We'll make them pay for all their dirty murders — 

We'll show them how a starving hate can sting! 

They riddled us with volley after volley; 

We heard their speeding bullets zip and ring, 
But soon we" 11 make them suffer for their folly — 

Oh, Buddy, how I'm longing for the spring! 

Paint Creek, W. Va.. 1913 
6 




MAY DAY SONG 

(Air: "Flag of the Free") 

O, Labor Day, O, First of May, 

Welcome and honored on land and on sea. 
Winter so drear must disappear, 

Fair days are coming for you and for me. 
We, of the old world, building the New, 
Ours is the will and the power to do; 

Then let us sing, hail to the Spring — 
Hail to the Day we can strike to be free! 

Banner so red, high overhead, 

Hated and feared by the powers that be! 
In every land firmly we stand; 

Men of all nations who labor are we. 
Under one banner, standing as one, 
Claiming the earth and our place in the sun. 

Then let us sing, hail to the Spring — 
Hail to the Day we can strike to be free! 

O, Labor Day, O, First of K'lay, 

Warm with the gleam of the bright days to be! 
Join in the throng, fearless and strong, — 

One mighty Union of world industry. 
Shoulder to shoulder, each in his place, 
Ours is the hope of the whole human race. 

Then let us sing, hail to the Spring — 
Hail to the Day we can strike to be free! 



THE RED FEAST 

Go fight, you fools, your needless, gainless strife 
And spill each others guts upon the field! 

Serve unto death the men you served in life 
So that their wide dominions may not yield. 

Stand by the flag — the lie that still allures — 
Lay down your lives for land you do not own. 

And give unto a war that is not yours 

Your gory tithe of mangled flesh and bone. 

Ah, slaves, you fight your masters' battles well — 
The reek of rotting carnage fills the air! 

Your swollen bodies yield their noisome smell, 
Sweet incense to the ghouls who sent you there . . 

A feast of mothers' pain is here laid low 
For swarming insects hovering on high. 

Grey rats, red muzzled through the trenches go 
Where your death-tortured features face the sky. 

The maggots riot now on rotting men. 

The grass is greener than it was before. 
But as the dead cannot return again 

The ones who live must wage another war. 

So stagger back, you stupid dupes who've "won", 
Back to your stricken towns to toil anew, 

For there your dismal tasks are still undone, 
And grim Starvation gropes again for you. 

What matters now your flag, your race, the skill 
Of scattered legions — what has been the gain? 

Once more beneath the lash you must distil 
Your lives to glut a glory wrought of pain. 

8 



In peace they starve you to your loathsome toil, 
In war they drive you to the teeth of Death; 

And when your life-blood soaks into their soil 
They give you lies to choke your dying breath. 

So will they smite your blind eyes till you see, 
And lash your naked backs until you know 

That wasted blood can never set you free 

From fettered thralldom to the Common Foe. 

Then you will find that "Nation" is a name; 

That boundaries are things that don't exist; 
That Labor's bondage, worldwide, is the same. 

And ONE the enemy it must resist! 

Montreal, P. Q. 
1914 




SABOTAGE 

(Air; "Illinois") 
There's a word of wond'rous meaning, 

Sabotage, Sabotage, 
There's a harvest ripe for gleaning, 

Sabotage, Sabotage; 
Though they gouge us as they will 
In the shop or in the mill, 
There's a power we have still. 

Sabotage, Sabotage, 
There's a power we have still, 

Sabotage, Sabotage. 
It's the lesson they have taught us, 

Sabotage, Sabotage; 
We will fight them as they fought us. 

Sabotage, Sabotage, 
There's a rotten hold-up game 
"Exploitation" is its name. 
We can "sabot" just the same. 

Sabotage, Sabotage, 
We can "sabot" just the same. 

Sabotage, Sabotage. 
There's a word that bears repeating. 

Sabotage, Sabotage, 
There's a force there's no defeating, 

Sabotage, Sabotage, 
With our backs against the wall. 
Listen to our ringing call, — 
Are we beaten? not at all. 

Sabotage, Sabotage, 
Are we beaten? not at all, — 

Sabotage, Sabotage. 

10 




WHAT THE SATYR SANG 

A wild flood of images fills me, 

Dim pictures I cannot define ; 
An ecstatic wonderment thrills me, 

A loveliness dream-like, divine; 
A maid in the mist-hazy heather— 

A world that can never be mine. 

O maid of the mist-hazy heather. 

Diaphanous nymph of the night ; 
O come, let us hasten together 

To some hidden vale of delight. 
The dark woods are dream-lands of shadow, 

The mist is the mantle of white. 

Let us roam through the honey-sweet flowers 

As the scent-heavy petals unfold, 
Let us harvest a bright sheath of hours 

While the wet moon is circled with gold. 
Let us gambol and frolic and dally 

As we did on the hillsides of old. 

A hot flood of eagerness fills me. 

More wond'rous than dream- working wine. 
The far call of memory thrills me; 

My hand groping blindly for thine . . . 
But the days of the Earth-Love have vanished- 

The world that can never be mine. 



PREPAREDNESS 

For freedom die? But we were never free 

Save but to drudge and starve, or strike and feel 
The bite of bullets and the thrust of steel. 

For freedom die! While we have eyes to see 
How children writhe beneath thy crushing heel 

And mothers shudder at the thought of thee! 
For freedom die ... ? 

Defend the flag? Beneath whose reeking fold 
The gunmen of our masters always came 
To burn and rape and murder in thy name! 

Defend a flag to profit gluttons sold — 

Trade smirched until it is a thing of shame — 

The bartered paramour of Greed and Gold — 
Defend the flag . . . ? 

Protect our land? We who are dispossessed, 

And own not space to sleep in when we die! 

"Our" land is held by haughty thieves on high — 
The brood of vipers sheltered at thy breast. 

Our "liberty" is but a loathsome lie; 
We have no homes nor any place to rest — 

Protect our land . . . ? 

Resist the foe? We shalll From sea to sea 

The vile invaders' battle line is thrown; 

This is the workers' war and this alone, 
To battle with the Thieves of Industry 

Whose wealth is red with mangled flesh and bone. 
Resist the foe? Ah, crush him utterly — 

Resist the foe . . . !!! 



12 



THE CONQUEST OF THE EARTH 

The War is on— a growing storm against your outposts 

hurled. 
It is no war of compromise; the death-flag is unfurled. 
The armies of the dispossessed lay siege unto the 

world. 
This is our war— our Holy War— the final Social 

Strife. 
No mercy do we ask or give — no other prize but Life; 
A war to win or lose the world — a battle to the knife. 
Too long you gouged us one by one, and gloried in our 

fall, 
.Or when we fought dividedly you crushed us to the 

wall; 
But now we know the hurt of one is injury to all. 
No flags or tongues keep us apart; our creed is to be 

free. 
The only Fatherland we have is world-wide Industry. 
Where ere we toil we face the foe — our Common Enemy. 
Too long we drudged like driven beasts beneath your 

iron sway ; 
Too long we faced, diverted, dumb, your hell-hounds 

in the fray ; 
Now WAR is on and YOU'RE the one to settle and 

to pay. 
In One Big Union now we stand, the world to gain and 

own, 
And in your beastly ugly face our battle-cry is thrown. 
The earth with all its unborn wealth is OURS and 

ours ALONE. 

13 



Our weapons are "your" vast machines; they answer 

to OUR call. 
The hands that guide them rule the world — the 

greatest force of all — 
A power so mighty that it makes all other power 

small. 
What will you say when that Day comes, when on 

the land and sea 
Your sullen slaves have seen the Light of better times 

to be, 
And leave their tasks to toil no more until they can 

be free? 
When wheels and drills and looms will cease and each 

tool idle stands, 
And mines and mills and factories are silent in all 

lands — 
When you are driven forth to earn your living with 

your hands? 

Ah, do not drivel platitudes at anything we do. 

The dirty weapons you have used will suit our 

purpose too. 
And we will pay you back in full just as we learned 

from you\ 
For in our strong, hard hands we hold a sure, resistless 

might, 
More terrible than all your lies or guns and dynamite. 
(What e'er is good for you is "wrong"; what's good 

for us is "right.") 

You kept us in uncertainty, heart-hopeless and 

afraid. 
You gave us cast-off crusts and rags, and claimed that 

we were "paid," 
You blighted us to suit your needs, then mocked the 

thing you made. 

14 



It seems the sight of your black deeds would daily 

haunt your mind, 
The bodies that you rob and wreck, the souls you 

warp and grind ; 
But you grow greedier each day — more ravening and 

blind. 
In spite of ceaseless golden streams that in your cof- 
fers pour — 
More wealth than you can use or waste — you clamor 

still for gore; 
You gouge and squeeze and clutch and scream for 

more and more and MORE. 
Your narrow eyes see but the "game," your mouth 

is hard with sneers. 
The only time you'll feel the touch of human woe and 

tears 
Is when the sudden cyclone roars around your very 

ears. 
You boasted, swollen with your pride, "1 am because 

I am"; 
You flashed the scrawls that made you great— your 

printed paper sham ; 
Take one long loving look at them ; they are not worth 

a damnl 
They do not mean a thing to us; our hate-forged 

strength is sweet, 
And all your "holy" codes and "laws" we trample 

with our feet ; 
Not all your lawyers, soldiers, priests can save you 

from defeat. 
For you're a loathsome outlawed thing — a greed- 

fanged parasite. 
An enemy of humankind without a single "right" — 
The stolen plunder that you prize is ours to take on 

sight. 

15 



You are like rattlesnake or vermin red with lust. 
You are a mad-dog hot for blood that bites because 

it must; 
A thing to spit upon and curse and stamp into the 

dust. 

For your syphilitic sons would keep the Future Race 

in chains; 
Grow fat in lustful luxury from hired hands and 

brains, 
And drench the earth, as you have done, for greater, 

richer gains! 

But we've declared a War on you — decreed that you 

must fall! 
Do you demand that WE make some portion large or 

small? 
You have no valid right or claim to ANY share at all! 

War rages now beneath your walls — around your 

marble towers 
Where you enjoy the bloody feast mid wine and song 

and flowers; 
And soon we'll make your life and bread as safe as 

you made ours. 

WE made the mills, WE dug the mines, WE laid the 

shining rails. 
We filled those golden coffers full, we spread your 

Argo sails; 
And now we sweep you from the earth with force 

that never fails. 

For it is OURS and ONLY ours, this world is ours 

alone. 
OURS are the hands that dug and reaped those riches 

heaven thrown. 
We plant the Red Flag on it ALL and claim it as our 

own. 

16 



The torpid ages travailed long while systems died and 

grew, 
Until the final hour struck that sounded DOOM for 

you; 
You are the Past, the Dead, the Dust; we Heralds of 

the New. 

We are the Herators of Time, not outcasts of despair — 
The Builders of a gleaming world, the Future, calm 

and fair; 
And we've starved through your dismal night to 

feast in plenty there. 

We want this world for all who work — a heritage by 

birth; 
We want as "pay" the fullest joy that Human Life 

is worth: 
We therefore start the New Crusade the Conquest of 

the Earth. 

From out the reeking hells of greed where we have 

delved and spun 
We'll stream forth with a ringing song, the Final 

Battle won. 
To find upon the fair green earth our place within the 

sun! 

The War is on — a howling storm — against your fast- 
ness hurled. 

Our battle-line now girts the globe, the death-flag is 
unfurled. 

We, who have slaved and slept and bled, shall soon 
f)ossess the worldl 




17 




TOO ROTTEN RANK FOR HELL 

(Dedicated to the Journalistic Prostitutes of 
Capitalism) 

The Devil stood, as a devil should, 

Near a pit of burning coals. 
And without a word his red imps stirred 

A stew of dead men's souls. 
And the caldron hubbled and bubbled and boiled, 
And the red imps hurried and scurried and toiled. 
And the vapors were whirling and curling that coiled 

From the stew of dead men's souls. 

The soul of a witch and a red-eyed bitch 

That was born in a black eclipse. 
A detective or two, were thrown into the stew, 

And the Devil smacked his lips. 
A preacher, a pimp, and a boot-licking slave, 
A bugger, a slugger, a light-fingered knave, 
A "stool" and a ghoul who had opened a grave . . . 

And the Devil smacked his lips. 

Said he "Make it rougher and ranker and tougher 

I am sick of the likes of these; 
So they brought a mine-guard with his yellow-leg 
pard . . . 

No, something still rottener, please 
"They're as shameless and nameless as any I meet, 
And as foul as I make 'em or take "em to eat. 
But I now wish a lavishing, ravishing treat 

Of something still rottener, please." 

18 



So the red imps raced in hellish haste 

To seek for the very worst. 
And v/hen in the stew this soul they threw ..." 

The Devil groaned and cursed . . . 
THAT . . . Newspaper-Truth-raper . . HERE . . . 

at THIS time . . . ! 
The lecherous, treacherous creature of slime . . . ! 
The vomit-brained harlot all scarlet with crime . . .!!! 

And the Devil groaned and cursed. 

Now each poor imp has got to limp. 

Their bruises ache and swell, 
The soul they had was stinking bad — 

Too rotten rank for hell! 
And the caldron bubbled and bubbled and boiled. 
And the Devil's ravishing treat was spoiled, 
And he SHRANK from the vapors that curled and 
coiled — 

TOO ROTTEN RANK FOR HELL! 



YOU PREACHERS OF "MORALS" 

You bolster Exploitation with your creed 
Though blood upon its whiplash never dries. 
You do the work of hired thugs and spies ; 

Like them you serve the System for your "feed." 

The World's great Wrong cries out: you do not heed. 
But drivel rot with heaven-uplifted eyes, 
Then creep away behind a cloud of lies 

To kiss the palsied hand of murderous Greed. 

This is the work for which you get your pay : 
To keep the world unchanged in sullen "peace" 
Where serf-men toil at tasks that never cease, 

Heartbrokenly from bitter day to day — 
The Crime upheld by preachers and police 

Where Lust, unhindered, battens on its prey! 

19 



"COME UNTO ME..." 

(New York, 1914) 

The night we came from out the drifting snow 

The winds were bitter and the streets were drear; 
You drove us forth who knew not where to go. 

We homeless "bums" had watched the blizzard grow — 

The ghastliest and wildest of the year — 
The night we came from out the drifting snow. 

But how could God's anointed ever know 

What Hunger means when Want and Cold are near — 
You drove us forth who knew not where to go. 

We knew your piety for empty show, 

But still your pillared church was warm with cheer 
The night we came from out the drifting snow. 

Some day an earth-uprooting storm may blow 

Your haughty temples full of screaming fear — 
You drove us forth who knew not where to go! 

Then you'll remember how you scoffed at woe 

And met a plea for shelter with a sneer. 
The night we came from out the drifting snow 
You drove us forth who knew not where to go\ 



20 




THE WARRIOP. AND THE BEAST 

Guerrero's dead! with radiant face he strode 
Into the seething maelstrom of your hate, 

And thronging thousands follow on the road 
To feed or crush the beast insatiate. 
For warriors die and glory in their fate 
And laugh at Death— at Death the desolate. 

Guerrero dead? His name is dazzling light! 

For heroes slain are never heroes dead, 
They live to guide their brothers in the fight, 

And tyrants fear when armies thus are led. 

So take those ghastly laurels from your head. 

But see! Your hands are dripping, dripping red. 

Guerrero lives! This man you cannot kill. 
His deathless life illuminates the east, 

His thousands quake your fastness on the hill ; 

Live on! Live on! nor stop the blood-stained feast, 

A little longer live to learn at least 

That Mexico wants MEN, and not a BEAST. 

Chicago, Illinois, 
January the 22nd, 1911 



The name "Guerrero" means "warrior" in Span- 
ish. Porfirio Diaz is remembered commonly as "la vieja 
bestia" — the old beast. 



21 




THE EUNUCH 

(To those who will not, dare not, cannot — rebel.) 

Once a Eunuch by the palace 
In the fading sunset glow, 
Felt the warm soft breezes blow ; 

Watched the fair girls of the harem 
Idly saunter to and fro. 

Saw he beauty young and lavish 

Fierce to lure man's every sense . . . , 
(Grim the Eunuch stood and tense.) 

Laughingly the sparkling fountain 
Mocked his bleak incompetence. 

Came the Sultan from his hunting 

Flaming with the zest of life; 

(Laid aside were spear and knife;) 
Came for wine and song and feasting, 

Came to seek his fairest wife. 

Opened then the marble portals; 

Fragrant incense filled the air, 

(Sandalwood and roses rare,) 
While the girls with red-lipped languor 

Scattered flowers everywhere. 

Far away the fabled mountains 
(Like some paradise of old) 
Glowed with lavender and gold; 

Tense the Eunuch stood and silent — 
Tense and sullen, tense and cold. 

22 



Now a quick impotent fury 

Lashed him like a bronze-tipped cord. 

Sprang he at the youthful lord; 
Sprang again with blade all bloody . . 

(Famished lust and dripping sword!) 

Night crept on all chill and ghastly. 

Jackals trotted forth to bark. 

(Murder shuddered, still and stark . . 
By the palace ceased the fountain 

And the whole grey world grew dark. 



RESPECTABILITY 

You whitened sepulchre of Christian grace; 

You saintly, honored, holy — hideous thing! 

You smother Truth with raucous gibbering; 
You hide your rotting sores with silk and lace; 
You lavish loathsome gifts of gold and place 

On whorish fools who praise you as their king — 

Who crucify your foes while church-bells ring . . 
But blest be they who spit into your facel 

Go, girt yourself with your dull panoply. 

Make sharp with thorns the paths men travel in. 

Upraise your blood-cry with infernal din — 
You Larva of the Past, but, ah, for me, 

How better far to live with leprous sin 
Than reek and rot with your innanity! 



23 



SLAVES, TO THE SLAUGHTER! 

The drums roll forth their summons, 

The war-like bugles thrill, 
From here and there and everywhere 
The slaves are given arms to bear 

Some other slaves to kill. 

Each one must do his "duty" — 

Must find warm blood to spill ; 
For "wrong" or "right," with dread or spite, 
Although HE has no cause to fight; — 

It is his master's will. 

He leaves his wife or mother, 

He learns to march and drill. 
For wise men say, "Ah, haste the day 
When you can stab and shoot and slay — 

God bless you while— YOU KILL!" 

They praise him in the papers 

With patriotic swill; 
They dress him in a gaudy suit 
And teach him how to aim and shoot. 

Then send him forth to — KILL. 

The "lawful" zealots laud him, 

(Their guarded codes are nil) 
In accents loud they tell the crowd 
That "lawful" murder is allowed; 

It IS NO CRIME TO KILL. 



24 



He marches down the highway, 

The cheers ring loud and shrill ; 
With deadly weapons in his hand 
He leaves "his own dear native land" 
Some corpse strewn trench to fill. 

They lead him to the "enemy" 

To prove his warlike skill; 
He knows not who, he knows not why, 
But some poor slave has got to die 

For he is there— TO KILL. 

Beneath his masters' banner, 

Before his masters' hill, 
Unto his masters' god he'll pray 
(Slave seeking courage slaves to slay) 

And aid "divine" to kill. 

Then comes MACHINE MADE MURDER 
The strongest hearts are still . . . 

And many a slave has found a grave 

In gory sod or a crimson wave — 
YEA, OF HIS OWN SWEET WILL. 

The workers have THEIR struggle— 

Their war to wage— until 
It comes to pass the workingclass 
Beneath its OWN red flag shall mass, 

The world with joy to fill. 

Unite! unite! for your own fight. 

In mine and shop and mill; 
How better far such battles are 
Than all the streaming ways of war 

Where slaves fight slaves TO KILL! 



25 



HEY! POLLY 

(Tune: "Yankee Doodle") 

The politician prowls around 
For workers' votes entreating. 

He claims to knows the slickest way 
To give the boss a beating. 

CHORUS 

Polly, we can't use you, dear. 

To lead us into clover ; 
This fight is ours and as for you, 

Clean out or get run over. 

He claims to be the bosses foe 

■ On workers' friendship doting. 
He says, "Don't fight while on the job, 
But do it all by voting. 

Elect Me to the office, boys. 
Let all your rage pass o'er you; 

Don't bother with your countless wrongs, 
I'LL do your fighting for you." 

He says that sabotage won't do, 

(It isn't to his liking) 
And that without HIS mighty aid 

There is no use in striking. 

He says that he can lead us all 

To some fair El Dorado, 
But he's of such a yellow hue 

He'd cast a golden shadow! 



26 



He begs and coaxes, threatens, yells, 
For shallow glory thirsting, 

In fact he's but a bag of wind 
That's swollen up to bursting. 

The smiling bosses think he'd like 
To boodle from their manger ; 

And as he never mentions STRIKE, 
They know there is no danger. 

And all the while he spouts and spiels 

He's musing undetected 
On what a helluva snap he'll have 

When once he is elected! 



RETUFkNING 

The scene is wan with fading light. 
The trees are drooped in hazy dreams, 
A far-off cottage window gleams — 

A tiny beacon, lone and bright. 

The evening sounds are faintly clear — 
An echo of the workday strife, 
While thrilling with a strange new life 

A hidden bird is warbling near. 

And one rough shadow, blurred and grey, 
Creeps slowly on with feet of lead — 
A slave who trudges home to bed 

To rest him for another day. 

He pauses as he passes by 

To catch each liquid dream-like note; 

A sob has risen in his throat 
Somehow, without him knowing why. . 



27 



SOLIDARITY FOREVER 

(Air: "John Brown's Body") 

When the Union's inspiration 

Through the Workers' blood shall run 
There can be no power greater 

Anywhere beneath the sun. 
Yet what force on earth is weaker 

Than the feeble strength of one? 
But the Union makes us strong. 

CHORUS 

Solidarty forever! 
Solidarity forever! 
Solidarity forever! 
For the Union makes us strong. 

Is there aught we hold in common 

With the greedy parasite, 
Who would lash us into serfdom 

And would crush us with his might? 
Is there anything left for us 

But to organize and fight? 

For the Union makes us strong. 

It is we who plowed the prairies, 
Built the cities where they trade, 

Dug the mines, and built the workshops, 
Endless miles of railroad laid. 

Now we stand outcast and starving 
'Mid the wonders we have made; 
But the Union makes us strong! 



28 



All the world that's owned by idle drones, 

Is ours and ours alone. 
We have laid the wide foundations. 

Built it skywards stone by srone. 
It is ours and not to slave in, 

But to master and to own, 

While the Union makes us strong. 

They have taken untold millions 
That they never toiled to earn, 

But without our brain and muscle 
Not a single wheel can turn! 

We can break their galling shackles — 
Gain our freedom when we learn 
That the Union makes us strong. 

In our hands is placed a power 
Greater than their greedy gold — 

Greater than the might of armies. 
Magnified a thousandfold; 

We can bring to birth the new world 
From the ashes of the old, 

For the Union makes us strong! 




29 



THE PRAWBLEM SAWLVER 

His pink fingers are SO pretty, 
And he has a bright and witty 

Lofty brow! 
Seems to think that we are slighting 
All the wrongs we're really righting, 
And that he does all the fighting, 

Telling how. 

In a condescending manner. 
He adopts the worker's banner 

As his own. 
He descends into the gutter. 
Where we sweat for bread and butter 
Saying things we COULD NOT utter 

All "alone. 

While we work he does the grunting, 
Always there for glory hunting, 

Large or small. 
Has there been a row — he led it. 
Some wise word? — old high-brow said it, 
And he always hogs the credit 

For it all. 

When WE speak it is with terror. 
Lest an inadvertent error 

He detect. 
Count the foibles he abolished, 
All the gods he has demolished — 
And his language is SO polished 

And correct! 



30 



Still I'm sure our friend so scathing 
Loves our movement — as a plaything 

New and rare. 
He delights to solve each puzzle 
That our common brains befuzzle, 
And to pry his yellow muzzle 

Everywhere. 

We rejoice that he can love us 
From the windy realms above us 

Where he flies. 
We poor dubs would never doubt him, 
Not a single thing about him, 
But how CAN we live without him 

When he dies? 



THE MINE GUARD 

You cur! How can you stand so calm and still 
And careless while your Brothers strive and bleed? 
What hellish, cruel, crime-polluted creed 

Has taught you thus to do your master's will? 

Whose traitor dole has damned your soul until 
You lick his boots and fawn to do his deed — 
You pander to his lust of boundless greed 

And guard him while his cohorts crush and kill? 

Your sneaking crimes are like a rotten flood — 
The beating, raping, murdering you've done — 
You sycophantic coward with a gun: 

The worms would scorn your carcass in the mud ; 
A bitch would blush to hail you as a son — 

You loathsome outcast, red with human blood! 



31 



JOE HILL 

Murdered by the authorities of the State of Utah, 
November 19th, 1915 

High head and back unbending — fearless and true, 
Into the night unending; why was it you? 
Heart that was quick with song, torn with their lead; 
Life that was young and strong shattered and dead. 

Singer of manly songs (laughter and tears) ; 
Singer of Labor's wrongs, joys, hopes and fears. 

Though you were one of us, what could v/e do? 
Joe, there were none of us needed like you. 

We gave, however small, what Life could give; 
We would have given all that you might live. 

Your death you held as nought, slander and shame. 
We from the awful thought shrank as from flame. 

Each of us held his breath, tense with despair, 
You, who were close to Death, seemed not to care. 

White-handed, loathsome Power, knowing no pause, 
Sinking in Labor's flower murderous claws! 

Boastful, with leering eyes, blood dripping jaws; 
Accurst be the cowardice hidden in laws! 

Utah has drained your blood, white hands are wet. 
We, of the "surging flood," NEVER FORGET! 

Our songster! have your laws now had their fill? 
Know ye, his songs and cause ye cannot kill! 

High head and back unbending "rebel true-blue," 
Into the night unending; why was it you? 

32 



UP FROM YOUFk KNEES 

(Air: "Song of a Thousand Years") 

Up from your knees, ye cringing serfmen! 

What have ye gained by whines and tears? 
Rise! They can never break our spirits 

Though they should try a thousand years. 

CHORUS 

A thousand years, then speed the victory! 

Nothing can stop us nor dismay. 
After the winter comes the springtime; 

After the darkness comes the day. 

Break ye your chains, strike off your fetters; 

Beat them to swords, the foe appears . . 
Slaves of the world arise and crush him — 

Crush him or serve a thousand years. 

Join in the fight— the Final Battle, 
Welcome the fray with ringing cheers. 

These are the times our fathers dreamed of 
Toiled to attain a thousand years. 

Be ye prepared, be not unworthy. 
Greater the task when triumph nears. 

Master the earth, O men of labor . . , 
Long have ye learned— a thousand years! 

Over the hills the sun is rising, 

Out of the gloom the light appears. 

See at your feet the world is waiting, 

Bought with your blood a thousand years. 

33 



THE GHOST WALKS 

I wonder if you understand 

Why people always say, 
"The ghost is walking" when you go 

To get your hard-earned pay? 
About this thing your "pay," my lads, 

I've got a word to say: 
Tis but a "ghost" that flits about 

And always flies away. 

It's true that with your horny hands 

You labor every day, 
Yet you get nothing but a "ghost" 

To keep the wolf away. 
You house the world and clothe the world 

And feed the world each day. 
Yet you get nothing but a "ghost" 

To keep the wolf away. 

Your bosses are well-fed and fat. 

Their smiles are blithe and gay. 
They do not rob you with a gun, — 

They have a better way. 
They have a better way, my lads, — 

They give a "ghost" for pay; 
You toil and moil because you must, 

They rob because they may. 



34 



You see, the boss gives you a "job." 

You get so much per day, 
But you produce far more, my lads, 

Than ever comes your way. 
And of this "product of your toil," 

(I'm very sad to say) 
You give the "6ody" to the boss 

And keep the "ghost" for "pay". 

But should you wish to change all this, 

On some bright First of May 
Demand your product on the job 

The One Big Union way. 
That is your rightful pay, my lads,— 

The only "honest" pay; 
The boss will then become the "ghost" 
And soon he'll "walk" away. 

GOOD. SLAVES AND SPRINGTIME 

The whirring wheels go round and round, 
The slaves speed on throughout the day. 
More joyless, dreamless things than they 

Could nowhere on the earth be found. 

No other sight, no other sound, 
No hope but thus to always stay. 

The whirring wheels go round and round. 
The slaves speed on throughout the day. 

Outside, that mystery profound, 
A breath of Spring from far away — 
The world wakes at the call of May; 
But here the master smiled or frowned, 
The whirring wheels go round and round. . . 



35 




A MEMOKY 

I left you, you remember, singing there 
Beneath the swaying branches and the sky ; 

The breeze just stirred the sunlight in your hair, 
And back of you the stream went surging by. 

Along the path the violets were wet 

And all the hillsides drenched with evening dew. 
I strode on quickly that I might forget, 

But all the woods were eloquent of you. 

Your fresh young beauty stabbed me like a knife; 

I seemed to breathe its fragrance everywhere. 
I wondered from this mad black whirl of life 

How anything on earth could be so fair. 

The fire-fly now darts his golden light; 

The river's barred reflections leap and twist; 
The frogs tune up their chorus for the night 

And all the hills are melting into mist. 

You seemed the soul of days that used to be. 

That song of yours my mother loved of yore, 
And as you sang it all came back to me — 

The dead America that is no more. 



36 




THE RUBAIYAT OF A HARVEST STIFF 

Awake! the Harvest Hand has found its might; 
The Red Book Boys have put the Foe to flight : 

And lo! a soft-pawed Sabo-Cat has caught 
The "tight-wad" Boss who is no longer "tight." 

For when the cock crew, as in days of yore 
John Farmer hammered on the cowshed door; 

"Come on, you Bums," yelled he, "and go to work/" 
"Back up," we said, "we've heard that noise before!" 

"Get up!" he howled, "a thousand Bums each day 
Beg me for work and never mention pay." 

"Ah, yes, and when your dirty work is done 
They pack their sweaty duds and fade away! 

And those who harvested the golden grain 

And toiled on through the summer heat and rain 

Will live on "flop-house" charity and soup 
Until you call them to your fields again. 

You sometimes think men should not go to bed 
But rather toil until the east is red, 

Ah, you'd be happy if we served you thus, 
And licked your boots for but a crust of bread." 

Why should we toil till morning greets the skies 
And let each farmer gouge our guts that tries; 

We learned our lesson, and we learned it hard 
Before we had the brains to organize. 

37 



It's all a game — these fields we harvest in; 
The "Scissor" loses ere he can begin. 

But SOLIDARITY is One Big Hand 
That makes the Wobbly always sure to win. 

The grindstone always grinds the "Scissors" nose. 
For right or left as bids the Boss he goes. 

But ask some Wise One why he organized, 
He knows the reason why — he KNOWS — HE knows! 

The Moonlight Monster said, "We don't agree; 
You take the wage I give or let it be!" 

"All right, old top, two bones and fifty cents 
Will mean HEADS DOWN (we'll stack them right 
for three!") 

There is no road too rough for Wooden Shoes; 
(There is a Cat with CLAWS that never mews!) 

A little Direct Action on the job — 
And God Almighty couldn't make us lose! 

The Shoe that can with logic absolute 

The "Scissor" slave and "Scissor" boss confute — 

The mighty Talisman that in a trice 
Can Toil's Tin Wages into gold transmute. 

So leave the Wind-Bags wrangle — let them be 
To slaughter gods and spout philosophy ; 

The Wobbly has the Way to get the Goods 
And that's the thing that interests you and me. 

For when John Farmer's crops are stacked up fine, 
Then every single rebel down the line 

Can say (thanks to the Red Book and the Cat) 
I've got my share, you "Scissors" — I've got mine! 



38 



And you, Good Slaves, who always prowl around 
To work for "chuck" and sleep upon the ground, 

You cannot ride or eat or work with us ; 
The reason is WE WANT NO SCABS AROUND. 

I heard a "shack" of some Wild Wobblies tell, 
Christ, but they're rough; those Harvest Hands are 
Hell;— 
Beware of gangs that sing those rowdy songs . . . 
(He's learned his lesson, boys, he'll treat us well.) 

There are some "stick-up" mugs with fancy eyes. 
And many a Sheriff, too, has been put wise; 

The old Town Clown respects us as he should — 
Us Stick-Together Boys that organize. 

And thou who didst with Poker and with Gin 
Infest the Jungles I have slumbered in; 

You'll have to find some better way than this 
To take away MY little store of Tin. 

Once in the Harvest Field at Dusk of Day 
A "Scissor" stiff toiled on— the "Scissor" way; 

I tapped him on his sweaty shirt and said : 
"Ah, gently. Brother, gently pray. 

Why work so hard for wheat you'll never taste? 
(Next Winter in the Soup-Line you'll be placed.) 

So help us make John Farmer come across. 
And if he doesn't, Brother, why make haste? 

Ah, when his crop is in and you should pass 
John Farmer's gate he'd kick you in the pants; 

So join us now and wear a Red Book, too, 
And win the world for both yourself and class." 

HOOKUMHAI. 



39 




MEXICO 

O, how I long for you, golden-hued Mexico, 

Cool of your mountains and mists of your streams! 

Breathe I a song for you, fiower-starred Mexico 
Plaintively cruel with joy-tortured dreams. 

Love thoughts endure of you, passionate Mexico; 

Hot in my blood they are quivering yet. 
Thrilled with the lure of you, legended Mexico, 

Those who have seen you can never forget. 

O, the bright gleam of you, sun-ravished Mexico, 
Warm with a wonder divinely your own; 

O, how I dream of you, odorous Mexico, 
How like an exile I wander alone! 

Humbly I burn to you, exotic Mexico, 

Incense of love to your tropical sky. 
I shall return to you, glorious Mexico, 

Blessing my thralldom if only to die. 




40 



THE JUNGLE STREAM 

Dull fog — grey veil enfolding all, 
Dim buildings, lurid sunbeam kissed, 
A skyline rising into mist 
Where coiling vapors writhe and twist 

And dismal dun-toned shadows fall. 

Grim tugs that plow the grimy stream 
With waves cut fanwise by the keel ; 
A bridge, etched bold in lines of steel 
And smudged with swarming crowds that reel 

Like dizzy phantoms through a dream. 

Damp breeze that brings a fetid smell, 
A roar that waxes loud and lulls. 
Far down below the grey-wing gulls 
Soar round the gloomy steamer hulls, 

All blurred within a hazy hell. 

The clanging clamour swells afar; 

The strife- worn mobs rush madly by ; 

The ghostly city towers high, 

But, distant in the fading sky, 
In holy silence gleams one star. 



41 



THE SLAVE, THE NAUTCH GIRL 
AND THE COBRA 

From the Spanish 

Leap! spring! writhing thing! 

This hooded serpent crawls 
Rhythmic at my command. 

Blaze burn! 

Great King! 
Now silent evening falls 

Over the pallid sand, 

The pallid sand . . . 
G^me, wild one, twist and turn. 
Heed that my grace you earn, 
Haste that thy hate I learn, 

To madness fanned! 

Bend! swing! laughing, sing! 

Madder the music make — 
Whirl like the wind and sway . . . ! 

More fleet . . . ! 

Great King, 
See how my heart will break. 

Love her none other may. 

None other may! 
Jeweled her tinkling feet, 
Red are her lips and sweet, 
Breasts where her girdles meet 

White as the moon are they . . . 

O, white are they! 



42 



Writhe! sting! deadly thing! 

Quick was his hooded head 
Self slain in anguish grand. 

Ah! see! 

Great King, 
Behold him dead and still — 
Dead on the pallid sand . . 

What with the fire in me. 
Slave I can never be; 
See me, then, dead or free 
By my own handl 



THE. KANAWHA STRIKER 

Good God! Must I now meekly bend my head 
And cringe back to that gloom I know so well? 
Forget the wrongs my tongue may never tell, 

Forget the plea they silenced with their lead, 

Forget the hillside strewn with murdered dead 

Where once they drove me — mocked me when I fell 
All black and bloody by their holes of hell, 

While all my loved ones wept uncomforted? 

Is this the land my fathers fought to own — 
Here where they curse me — beaten and alone? 

But God, it's cold! My children sob and cry! 
Shall I go back into the mines and wait, 
And lash the conflagration of my hate — 

Or shall I stand and fight them till I die? 



43 



WHAT HAPPENED IN THE HOLLOW 

This story may of interest be, although its none too 

nice — 
The story of a mine-guard thug who had to pay the 

price. 
You know well, boys, the kind I mean, they'd steal 

an orphan's shoes 
Or sell their mother's honor for a swig of rot-gut 

booze. 
They are the watch-dogs, so its claimed, of property 

and life, 
And yet they rob and rape and kill; grow prosperous 

on strife. 
They carry "gats" to "get you ' and "knucks" to 

crack your jaw 
Yet live in fat security, protected by the "Law" — 
The law that is for Parasites steel bars to clutch their 

prey 
And for the workers of the world the Club that means 
'obey"! 

This tale is of Kanawha when the strike was getting 

hot, 
And some men worked and some men scabbed and 

many men were shot. 
The men who scabbed were living hard, the men at 

work scabbed too, 
Although they said "the 'contract' left them nothing 

else to do." 
The men on strike resisted well, of that there is no 

doubt ; 

44 



Though "union men" hauled in the scabs and hauled 

the scab coal out. 
The outside miners sent in grub and shoes and all 

the like 
And then went back into the mines and helped to 

break the strike. 
For these two things have always helped to keep us 

in the ditch: 
The "contracts" of our unions and the hirelings of 

the rich. 

Now Jurgot was this mine-guard's name (for treason 

to his class 
He had to pay) and you will hear just how it came 

to pass. 
They came to drive us from those shacks the Oper- 
ators' own 
And on the dusty county road our goods were being 

thrown. 
The Baldwins' did the dirty work with Yellow-legs 

on guard — 
A bunch of low scab-herding curs before each miner's 

yard! 
And what was left for us to do but just to stand aside 
And let them finish up the job— and swallow down 

our pride? 
They'd thrown us out — we knew they would — and 

we could hit the pike, 
Our masters could do everything except to break]our 

strike. 
They had the courts, the guards, the guns, the earth 

— without, within — 
But we had one another and a fighting chance to win! 

Bill Parson's house they came to last; it was the 
farthest down. 



45 



And Bill they feared and hated more than any man 

in town. 
Bill had a fist as hard as rock, he measured six feet 

two; 
And we were kind of wondering to know what Bill 

would do. 
Big Gurgot came and banged his fist and rattled at 

Bill's door; 
The two had met and Gurgot burned to settle up the 

score. 
When Bill appeared he didn't seem to be surprised at 

all, 
His woman stood beside him there, and Buddy, slim 

and tall. 
"Come out of this, it's time to move; you've got no 

business here!" 
Said Jurgot, and he curled his lip into a wolfish 

sneer. . . . 
Bills fists were clenched, his knuckle bones were 

slowly growing white. 
His jaw was set, his eyes grew cold; we feared there'd 

be a fight 
Bill knew too well the penalty to play into their 

game. 
He sniffed and smiled an ugly smile, but came out 

just the same. 
We knew that this was hard for Bill — we knew it 

made him sore, 
For he had licked that Baldwin pup a time or two 

before. 
And we, we saw the bluish glint upon each army gun 
We felt the menace of their lead and cursed them, 

every one. 
And we knew that somewhere handy a machine gun 

stand was set 



46 



With the starry flag above it— to be used should we 

forget, — 
And that somewhere chained and hidden with the 

yellow-legs in town 
Were a dozen dainty blood-hounds that would gladly 

hunt us down. 
Then two Kanawha cossacks came to where Bill 

Parsons stood, 
They grabbed him tight on either arm to make sure 

he'd be good. 
Said Bill, "Don't fret, I won't fight yet, I know what 

I'm about; 
But wait till spring and hear me sing to see the leaves 

come out. 
We'll make you pay, remember that, for all the dirt 

you do. 
And when the hills are not so bare we'll settle up 

with you!" 
The dough-boys knew what Bill meant, they gathered 

round him thick, — 
The very thought of leafy hills would always make 

them sick. 
And then it happened, that one thing that lashed us 

like a goad, 
They took Bill's woman by the arm and dragged her 

to the road. 
Big Jurgot jerked her brutally and swung her half 

around 
And when she cursed him in her pain he knocked her 

to the ground. . . . 
But Bill's boy Buddy, like a flash, sprang over where 

she fell; 
"I'll fix you yet, you Baldwin cur, I'll send your soul 

to hell!" 
Big Jurgot cowered back afraid of brave young 

Buddy's eye, 

47 



He knew that like a tiger cub the kid would fight and 

die. . . . 
Then Bill took one terrific lunge straight at the rat- 
faced hound, 
He smashed him square upon the eye and sprawled 

him to the ground! 
Then all the mine-guards grappled Bill, before he 

could resist 
They overpowered him and snapped a bracelet on 

each wrist. 
And Jurgot, coward that he was, when helped back 

to his place. 
He held his battered ugly eye and struck Bill in the 

face. . . . 
We saw Bill's muscles bulge and strain, we saw him 

reel and sway. 
They dragged him to the bull-pen then and locked 

him safe away. 
We saw the cruel bluish glint upon each army gun, 
We felt the menace of their lead and cursed them, 

every one. 

From this time on we had no word, no single trace 

of Bill, 
And now our tents were clustered at the bottom of 

the hill. 
But in about a week, I think, one grey and rainy day 

A striker came into our camp and said, "Bill's got 

away!" 
Soon came the guards to look for him, and each one 

armed to kill; 
Scab-herders came and yellow-legs, and each one 

after Bill! 
It always happens just this way whenever slaves 

rebel. 



48 



The Powers that Be unloose on them the very scum 
of Hell! 

We thought of how we'd like to go to help Bill get 

away 
But knew their eyes and lights and guns were on us 

night and day. 
We saw the wig-wam village of the tin-horn crew 

near by 
And we knew the one of us that went was pretty sure 

to die. 
That night we heard the baying dogs, a lonesome 

shot or two, 
While Mrs. Parsons, horror-eyed, sobbed on the whole 

night through. 
We heard the sentry's answering call, the brooklet 

gurgling near. 
And red, red thoughts went through our brains, some 

dim and others clear. 
But little Buddy, all alone bent over Bill's old gun; 

He oiled it up and polished it — and waited for the sun. 

The mine-guards came next morning and they brought 

Bill to the door, 
They had him in a blanket that was spotted red with 

gore. 
And Mrs. Parsons didn't weep as lots of women would 

But she had such a look on her that made us wish we 

could. 
She stroked Bill's white and rigid face, her eyes 

looked far away 

Well! We all got together then we had a plan to lay. 

When Jurgot came a swaggering up in front of 
every one 



49 



He had blood upon his khaki coat and powder on 

his gun. 
"I said to him" he boasted loud "the hills or bull-pen 

which? 
He took the hills and so did we, I fixed the son of a 

bitch!" 
Then Buddy raised his father's gun, but Jurgot saw his 

game. 
He quickly flashed his fourty two and took a steady 

aim 

But Mrs. Parsons ran between and screamed "what 

would you do, 
You've killed my Buddy's father; would you kill my 

Buddy too?" 
Poor Bill! his wife and kid, O hell! — what can a 

fellow say; 
It was this sight that made us glad that we had 
found a way. 

That very night saw Jurgot drunk and saw him 

leave for town, 
He had two barren hills to cross, we knew them up 

and down. 
We knew his doom was settled for at some time soon 

or late 
He'd have to leave the camp alone — and then he 

sealed his fate. 
Our crowd they couldn't blame at all — they knew 

right where we were, 
And none of us was paid to watch their profit- 
guarding cur. 
The night grew very calm and still as on his way 

he went. 
But nought seemed strange about our camp, each 

lamp was in its tent. 
And he walked on in confidence as if he felt secure 



50 



With the strikers power broken and a trigger finger 

sure. 
His "gat" was in his pocket, he could "legally" get by. 
And the miners had to cringe before his hate-enven- 
omed eye. 
Why should he fear the living when he had not feared 

the dead 
With a government machine-gun on the hill-top 

overhead ? 
We said "Don't fret, we'll get you yet; we know 

what we're about, 
But we won't wait and starve our hate until the 

leaves come out 
We'll make you pay, remember that, for all the dirt 

you've done, 
And your black soul will be in hell before tomorrow's 

sun!" 
He headed for the hollow and he swaggered as he 

went — 
This martyr to his master's rifle-guarded twelve 

percent. 

Next morning came the soldiers for to find out what 

we knew. 
And of course we only asked them what in hell could 

miners do 
When the hills are full of yellow-legs, their rifles full 

of lead 
And a murderous machine-gun teaching caution 

overhead. 
They pleaded with each one of us to kindly tell them 

all; 
We 'lowed as how their friend got drunk and likely 

had a fall. 
We saw that gleaming bluish glint upon each army 

gun 

51 



And we knew just what would happen, could they 

blame a single one, 
We knew they'd have a carnival without a bit of 

doubt; 
They always like to fight that way — before the 

leaves come out. 
They laid some crafty traps for us to trip and stum- 
ble in, 
But when we stick together, hell! How can we help 

but win? 
They went away, without their prey— they could not 

gather toll; 
Of all they do with bayonets they cannot dig for coal. 
The coal that Nature planted there for folks like me 

and you 
And not to yield up twelve percent to Mammon's 

favored few! 




52 




THE ALARM 

From the blackness of Toil's degradation 
In the mine and the mill and the farm, 

O'er the gulf of a dead generation 

Comes the newly-born voice of Alarm. 

Tis the voice of the dead in the living, 
An appeal to the brain and the arm, 

Tis the voices of murdered men giving 
New life to the cry of Alarm. 

Though the Tyrant is glutted and lustful, 
And protected by law's mystic charm, 

Yet his slumbering slaves are distrustful. 
They have hearkened and heard the Alarm. 

And he fears that his power is shaken 
That was mighty to maim and to harm; 

That his serf-men who slept will awaken 
At the Call of Revolt — the Alarm; 

That his world with its bleak desolation 
Will be shattered by Labor's strong arm; 

That the slumbering slaves of the nation 
Will UNITE at the sound of Alarm. 



53 



KISMET 

You can't escape our scorn 
No matter how you try! 

Blue-blood, patrician born, 
Proud and serene on high. 

Big-bellied, overfed. 

Gore-sucker, gourged and red. 

Swollen with Labor's dead — 
You can't escape our scorn 
No matter how you try! 

You can't escape our wrath 
No matter how you try. 
See! how it blocks your path, 

Too much alive to die; 

We, whom you gouge today, 

We, too, have found a way — 

Soon we shall make you pay! 

You can't escape our wrath 

No matter how you try. 

You can't escape our hate 
No matter how you try. 

Hard seated by your gate, 
One of us doomed to die. 

Think you our hands are loath? 

Snarl out your final oath. 

Earth cannot hold us both — 
You can't escape our hate 
No matter how you try! 



54 



You can't escape your fate 

No matter how you try — 
Red wrath and scorn and hate — 

Nemesis ever nigh; 
Nor can your gallow-tree 
Hold back the rising sea, 
YOU'VE NO EXCUSE TO BE- 
You can't escape your fate 
No matter how you try! 




55 



V 




The press-work on this book done by R. G. Horn 
erstwhile pressman of I. W. W. Publishing Bureau. 



fel-.f 



